


How Karkat Vantas Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Con Air

by urbanAnchorite (t_ZM)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Movie Night, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-27
Updated: 2011-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-17 07:33:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_ZM/pseuds/urbanAnchorite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John and Karkat rope each other into having an intense slumber party movie night. Popcorn, sleeping bags, the works."</p><p>The moment Karkat sees the sleeping bags, John sees him change his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Karkat Vantas Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Con Air

**Author's Note:**

> From **grimarious** 's wonderful prompt: "John and Karkat rope each other into having an intense slumber party movie night. Popcorn, sleeping bags, the works. In most fics I've read about them they think each other's movies are terrible and make no fucking sense. I want to see a fic where they ABSOLUTELY ADORE them. Like, Karkat falling ridiculously hard for Con Air and crying with John at the ending/having an epic enactment of the bunny scene, and John blubbering with Karkat when the troll protagonists hook up with each other in HIS movies. Like total pansies. [...] Extra bonus if half the time they have NO FUCKING IDEA about what's going on in the movies and have to get the other to translate/explain, but end up emotional wrecks anyway."
> 
> This is that fic, and you are the best for having thought this idea up in the first place. Also props to **Cephied Variable** for helping me hash out the movies, including the ridiculous troll titles (coming up entirely with Troll  My Best Friend's Wedding). Troll titles are _ridiculous_.

The moment Karkat sees the sleeping bags, John sees him change his mind. Any normal person would appreciate what he’s done to make this the sweetest sleepover set-up of _all time, _but Karkat is Karkat and allergic to nice things. He turns tail to go.__

“No way,” says John, and bursts from the blanket nest to rout the escape. “I stole, like, every pillow in this place. I raided the fridge. I had to get a Captcha code for margarine because butter gives you the skitters. I’ve popped an _assload_ of popcorn, Karkat! We are having this movie night and we are having it right now.”

They shadow-dance each other as the troll boy attempts to duck under John and doggedly make a break for the corridor, but they both know he can’t back out. He is wearing his jammies, for instance, which meant just getting here to John’s cabin must have been one heck of a walk of shame. His arms are full of stuff; he is suitably prepared. “This is not a fancy funtime fuck party, Egbert!” Karkat barks. “Cinema is serious goddamned business - ”

“Hey, nobody knows that better than me - “

“ - not to be taken lightly, isn’t a bullshit wriggler brightlight display - “

“ - cool, you brought Twizzlers,” says John. “The weird alien kind! Are those the ones that taste exactly like Cool Ranch?”

“ - this shit is so high-minded I fully expect you to start leaking blood from both noseholes as your thinkpan tries to process, you feeblebrained fuck,” says Karkat. “And yes. _Yes,_ I brought the Twizzlers.”

There are even two pillows tucked untidily under each armpit. John could not be prouder. Here they are, united as men and buds: men slash buds with a uniform and a purpose, even if that uniform is sweatpants and teeshirts and the purpose is to watch as many movies as they can stomach in one sitting. Karkat’s shirt was Dave’s so unfortunately that means it reads _World’s Best Grandma_ across its white worn-out front, but as far as protective clothing goes they are set and ready. John knows movie-watching is a marathon exercise, and comfort is paramount! The World’s Best Grandma is already laying his pillows on the bed to mark out his territory, making a kind of Great Wall of Twizzlers in the middle as a demilitarized zone, and for the umpteenth time John shuffles through his movies.

“Are we watching mine first, or yours?”

“Yours,” says Karkat, and his pepper-yellow eyes narrow as he adds the popcorn to his barricade. “I want to see how far I can get through your inane shitstain of a Con Air film before my digestion sac vibrates all over you.” (“Haha, gross!” says John.) “Then I can cleanse my goddamned mouth crypts with some worthwhile troll narratives that you’ll never appreciate in a thousand wrigglefucking sweeps. And you will weep in shame that you ever, _ever_ tried to make me watch your disappointment of a civilization fatfingering my cinematic mores.”

“There is going to be no weepage and I’ll ignore what you said about Con Air because you don’t know any better,” says John, ignoring the double whammy of middle fingers he’s currently getting, “and if I was a troll - ” (“YOU’RE NOT”) “I would _so_ want some human to enlighten me with some mega amazing Nic Cage. To deliver it unto me from high! Like an angel. I am your angel, dude.”

“You’re a shut your flapping maw and put in the movie,” says Karkat. Sheesh. “Also, pass me a pillow. Three more pillows.”

There’s the usual last-minute bitchfests - turning off the lights until the TV’s a big white glare, settling in, both of them carefully peeling candy from any rustly plastic packaging (nobody ever does that but John, this is _intense_ , he and Karkat are like filmwatching soulmates except Karkat is crunching the popcorn way too loud). The pillows are kind of making a slow glacier drip to the floor and their ankles both hang over the side, two pairs of skinny ankles unalike in colours though alike in mangrit, but this is going to be the best movie night of all time. John can feel it in his bones. John can feel it’s going to be fucking _spectacular._

He hits **Play**. John is not wrong.

  


* * *

_It Is About This Street Tough Renegade Who Did Hard Time Behind Bars, And Wants Nothing More In The World Than To Reunite With His Loving Wife And Daughter. But Not So Fast! He Has To Go On Crazy And Dangerous Escapades Through The Sky With A Motley Assortment Of Rogues Led By John Malkovich, Who is Wise To Cage’s Heroic Nature And Pure Heart. They Tether A Grumpy Police Man’s Awesome Car To The Plane And Smash It, And Then Later They Crash Into Some Casinos. Cage Gets Out Of The Wreckage And Hugs His Family, And John Usually Tears Up A Little_

or, Con Air

* * *

  


It is worrying when the first thing out of Karkat’s mouth is, “What the fuck is going on?”

So of course he has to start summarising Con Air as it’s playing, and that’s okay because he’s summarised it to his Dad, Rose, Dave, Jade, every single homeroom teacher he’s ever had since third grade, two bus drivers and Vriska, so basically he has a phD in explaining Con Air, but it’s still sort of disheartening also trying to explain “tie a yellow ribbon” while going _no, wait, oh man watch this bit, don’t you think Casey’s adorable, like don’t you think she’s the cutest thing_ \- as Karkat is sitting there like a candycorn gargoyle just staring at the screen. Every so often he will take a Twizzler and puree it with his teeth, which is gross, but John is too busy prepping his arguments on why they _have to continue_ the moment he gets the complaint to turn it off. No way is that happening. Bunny in the box, or bust.

“What the fuck is going on?” morphs into “What did that mean?” which morphs into “What the shit was _that_ ,” and having to define a couple of words he did not want to ever define, and by the time Cameron Poe is being a major badass and getting involved with Cyrus the Virus before he knows what’s happening but he’s just pure of heart and trying to calm down this crazy situation Karkat is saying, “What the everloving mother of grub is he doing?”

“Well, diabetes is a human disease and it doesn’t work like that in real life but it is used here for tension and dramatic effect - “

“No, I mean that human man is a Serket-grade psychopath!” It occurs to him that Karkat is gripping his knees so hard all his knuckles are showing and he hasn’t juiced any Twizzlers in a while. His eyes don’t leave the screen, and his angular, sharpjawed face is kind of scrunched up. It is scrunched up with the one-size-fits-all expression the troll boy uses for anger, nausea, hate and worry. “Fucking shoot him already, what kind of putrid pus-node soldier _were_ you? Wait, what’s he saying now?”

Oh my _God_ , John thinks.

No power in any universe could compel John Egbert to talk during the bunny scene, because he’s busy mouthing all the lines with Cameron, and despite this being the millionth time he’s watched Bedlam being unable to put that bunny back his heart never fails to leap into his throat. It is too amazing. He falls back on to the squishy mass of pillows and punches the air with a reverent _Yesss!,_ and when he sits up Karkat’s face is scrunched up worse than ever. The bright lights of the movie flicker across his skin, and it occurs to John that his expression is now one of fierce exultation. Also he has like three Twizzlers in his mouth.

But all he says is, “What’s fucking happening now?”

Nic Cage ends up saving the day and he ends up failing to explain the lyrics of _Sweet Home Alabama_ and also once again swears privately that one day he will grow his hair out like that, it’s so great, and his eyes water hard the moment that Diane Warren’s angelic voice starts up with _how do I_ and Cameron looks at Tricia Poe the exact way John will one day look at his beautiful future wife. It’s hard to swallow the lump in his throat. When they hug as a family something in him dies each time, and it’s all right if Karkat maybe doesn’t understand because he was raised by a giant crab and that’s fine, only when he sneaks a look Karkat Vantas has bitten right through his Twizzler.

The credits roll. John cannot contain himself. On his movie buddy’s face is still the shellshocked, candy-coloured stare of someone hit in the gut with a sledgehammer. Oh man. “So?”

“Yeah,” says Karkat slowly, “well, yeah. Yeah.” And: “Just put in the next one, grubchump.”

Yes. Yes he will.  


  


* * *

Independence Day

* * *

  


This one John thought was going to be a little difficult, since Karkat loves Troll Will Smith so much and gets kind of offended at most stuff to do with Will Smith. He loves Troll Will Smith like John loves Human Nic Cage, and though he would personally be up like ten times a day to see Troll Nic Cage Karkat has a habit of getting offended in, uh, an empty room. He is unbelievably touchy. It’s like his superpower: extreme irritation.

But as it turns out Karkat also loves human Will Smith. John has to explain everything Jeff Goldblum says at length and if he kept count of the times the troll has said “This is fucking ridiculous,” he would probably have a number in three digits, and also he is beginning to learn that Karkat doesn’t understand marriage, Presidents, is sensitive about grey alien autopsies and is a jerk about cool fighter jets, but they get through most of the Cool Ranch Twizzlers and half of the first batch of popcorn.

“That kiss was okay,” says Karkat, and slides back into the pillow nest.

“Oh man, that kiss was amazing. Like, it was up for a special award for kisses. Did you guys give out awards for great movie kisses?”

“Both goddamned kinds,” says Karkat (wait, what?). “We were an advanced and artistic society, Egbert, you patronizing dipshit. We gave out awards for complex situations I couldn’t make you understand even if you grew an extra fucking frontal lobe! I’m talking specific rubrics for the most hateful and passionate punches. The most expressive hand-holding.”

“No way, how can you _expressively_ hold hands - “

“How in the unkind love of fuck did we _ever_ make your culture,” Karkat says. He beans John on the forehead as hard as you can bean someone with a piece of popcorn, which because it is Karkat is pretty hard. “Just pretend you’re useful and give me the next one. Before I get bored of your subpar cinema. Because I _will_ get bored, you understand - ”

  


* * *

Armageddon

* * *

  


Karkat is transfixed watching Liv Tyler's supremely beautiful face as she lies back and gets animal crackers walked up her chest. His eyes are superglued to the screen. All the popcorn is gone and they are eating the hard popcorn cores you get when you don't make them pop properly, hands all margarine-y and licking their fingers and picking popcorn fragments out their teeth, stubbing the butt-ends of the Twizzlers into the salt and eating them that way. Even disgusting things taste amazing if they become movie food. And especially if eaten in the presence of Liv Tyler. Oh man.

"He's walking creature-shaped crackers," says Karkat. "Over her body."

"Isn't it romantic?"

"Shit." A big inwards-drawn breath. He sounds like a broken Suck'n'Vac. "Yes. Yes, it fucking is."

He complains about all the times when the helicopters fly against a glorious orange sunset but neither of them really care.

  


* * *

City of Angels   


* * *

  


There is a lot you can say about City Of Angels, though the first thing John would say is that Nicolas Cage looks incredibly cool in that long black coat. It trumps a lot of what you can say about the rest of City Of Angels. He and Karkat have swapped positions on the bed: the Berlin Wall of eaten snacks has fallen, and they’re lying on their bellies with sour gummy worms hanging out of their mouths. The metal wall is cool and smooth against his toes, and usually after three movies even an Egbert would be flagging a little but not this time. John is thirteen, and he is wild with adrenaline and cane sugar.

John is also used to watching this movie alone because it gets a little hot and heavy which is, jeez, embarrassing, but also because Dave has called it “City of Wangels,” and Rose keeps on going on about some German version of it which why would he even watch because, duh, no Nic Cage, so it’s - well, he hadn’t even thought he would get up to watching this thing with Karkat, his movie buddy just got up and put this one on without waiting for a _wait um I think this thing has nipples!_ and then it was too late. Karkat was also all, “Wait, is this a fucking horror flick?” and he had to give a really garbled description of what an angel was actually, but that’s not the embarrassing part.

The embarrassing part is he’s watched this movie a lot and he knows what’s going to happen so when a sad-eyed Nic Cage kisses Meg Ryan’s pixyish mouth but he can’t even feel it John starts to get another lump in his throat, like, a Con Air lump, and he brackets his chin in his arms and watches the blurry part above his glasses so that Karkat won’t notice. At this point the troll just grunts when he wants an explanation, though there’s a lot of spectrum to that grunt and John is pretty sure he’s identified the one that means _what the assnubbing fuck_ , and he’s giving vague three-word answers but the reason for this is he’s pretty sure he’s going to cry.

And the make-out is sort of embarrassing, yeah! It probably says a lot that all Karkat utters is a more wide-awake, “Ugh,” and then “ _Bluhhhhh,_ ” when he realises that Meg Ryan and Nicolas Cage are consummating their beautiful tragic human love with um definite signs of nipple, wow. The gags sound like they’re a little forced.

Then just when they get to be happy Meg Ryan is fatally hit by a truck and John loses it because it is _so very sad,_ and it’s at this that Karkat pushes himself up on his forearms and squawks, “Fuck,” and, “what the nooksniffing slimy sodden fuck,” and he’s making snuffling sounds and John realises he is also starting to cry. They both cry quietly for _five minutes straight._

By the end of City Of Angels John is one hundred percent convinced Karkat will throw in the sweaty, off-white towel. There are pinkish traces on his cheeks, and now he’s sitting up holding his knees and looking like he was made hollow and packed back up with something loose and light like popcorn crumbs. “Right,” he says, “right. Go to hell and die in a raging chemical fire, Egbert. Now we watch one of _my_ movies.”

John doesn’t argue.

  


* * *

_While Under The Auspice Of The Propagangers An Ambitious Journaslicer Sets Out To Lure Another Troll Picked At Serendipitous Random To Think She Is Courting His Flushed Quadrant Sabotaging Both Each Step Of The Way As He Hunts For A Red Romance To Prove His Worth To Others Until Their Enemies Reveal To Them The Nature Of Their Dual Treachery At Which Point They Flip To Kismeses And Slaughter Everyone Present In The Rage Of A True Black Waxing; Featuring Five Onscreen Kisses Of Which Four Are Made Falsely, And Numerous Scenes Of Females Sharing Solidarity Over Their Failed Romantic Entanglements_

* * *

  
John Egbert has made two important discoveries:

1\. Alternian movies don’t make even the slightest bit of sense without Karkat narrating them, and having to re-explain his weird troll romance thing until every time he asks Karkat just socks him in the shoulder and ends up giving him a dead arm, but how the heck is John supposed to pinpoint the exact moment when a red feeling turns black, or magenta, or whatever, like maybe they could put the symbol up on the screen to help out viewers who are a little bit lost on this issue but when he says that Karkat hits him again;

2\. Troll Matthew McConaughey is still so handsome. He would be such a homosexual for Troll Matthew McConaughey.

“Whoa,” says John. “That kind of... ended weird?”

“No, it fucking didn’t, were you stroking your bulge when genetics were serving the ability to find a fucking clue? _What_ didn’t make sense?” The troll is basically just launching off middle fingers now like they are rocketships. “Let me take a wild guess: ‘boo hoo hoo, onlookers were righteously destroyed in a hilarious blaze of black romantic passion, I don’t understand - ‘“

“I get _that_ ,” says John, “I guess I just wanted them to end up matesprits, is all! I mean, they had that flushed kiss and everything in the middle, it was sort of cute. Just saying, dude.”

Karkat is dead silent. He even looks a little haggard. His sticky-up black hair is plastered to his forehead and his horns, and he just stares as though John has announced he is made of macaroni! Or something. This is the first time John has ever had this effect on him, ever. It is sort of terrifying. “Next,” he says tersely.

  


* * *

_A Thirteen Sweep Old Gourmetormenter Receives A Call From Her Longtime Moirail With Whom She Once Made An Agreement To Become Matesprits With In Order To Avoid Being Culled If Neither had Found A Suitable Partner To Fill The Necessary Quadrants; She Discovers He Has Filled A Pail With A Younger Troll Who In Addition To being A Talented Threshecutioner Is Also A Blue Blood; Desperate To Save Her Longtime Moirail From Sharing Genetic Material With Such An Unsuitable Partner She Sets Out To Become The Younger Troll's Kismesis And Pull All Three Into A Rocky Auspistice Relationship; In The End She Develops An Honest Kismesis With The Threshecutioner And Her Moirail Realizes That His Feelings For Her Are Flushed Whereupon They Fill Their Buckets In Time; Featuring Five On-Screen Kisses And Fifteen Swear Words_

* * *

  


This one is actually really funny. John only laughs twice at bits he discovers he wasn’t meant to laugh at. They have made a sweet recovery from the City of Angels thing they are never going to talk about again, and neither of them are tired, they’ve padded a bunch pillows back against the wall and have spread their legs out crossways so they can stretch them out, and they’re leaning against each other’s shoulders but there’s a pillow between them so it’s emotionally hygenic. Both are a little too sweaty and the room's a little too warm, filled with their popcorn breath and an overkill of pillows, a blanket scattered halfheartedly between them and covered in candy fragments. At this point they'll both be dozing into their oatmeal or comfort-glop tomorrow, still wall-eyed and bleary as everyone else begins to wake up.

“Just one more, come on,” says John. “Please. Come on, I’m still awake.”

“Yeah,” says Karkat, “yeah, okay. I guess I have one more, if your pitiful psyche can handle it.”

“I will handle it until it is the most it has ever been handled, man!” It must be something about the magic of movie night. When he delivers a thumbs-up to the troll boy slumped next to him he does not do what he usually does, which is attempt to bend the thumb back until it breaks off, but just kind of waves his hand vaguely in John’s direction. “Until it is so handled.”

“Nail your seedflap shut, you unremitting dipshit.” When Karkat runs his fingers through his hair it totally spikes up all over the place and it’s hilarious. “Last one.”

  


* * *

_In Which A Young Seadweller Loses Her Matesprit To Wasting Disease And Afterwards Finds No Joy In Violence Or Death, Only To Find He Has Left Her A Series Of Correspondence Urging Her To Find A New Red Quadrantmate Before She Is Culled; With The Assistance Of Her Colleagues And Her Lusus She Returns To The Conquered Planet Where They First Met And Ends Up Filling A Pail With His Former Moirail, Whereupon She Attempts To Pity Her Own Pale Quadrant But Decides The Feelings Should Remain Conciliatory, While Despite Feeling Violent Emptiness Regarding Her Colleagues Filling Up Their Own Quadrants Learns To Find Meaning In Armourcraft; Featuring Six Kisses And One Implied Bucket-Filling_

* * *

  


“Oh, fuck,” says Karkat tightly.

“Wait, I don’t get it - wait, explain - “

“Oh, fuck,” he says again. There is a strange strangled quality to his voice that makes it come out from the bottom of his throat, sort of husky and squeaky at the same time. Like gargling gravel. “Oh, shitasses, she’s just... she’s just leaving his body there where it is and letting it... fuck, she lets it skeletonize throughout the movie, doesn’t touch it, just leaves it there to rot and oh, fuck. Fuck.”

This is the stupidest thing John has ever heard. They both burst into tears at the same time, loud and gulping torrents of them, as Troll Hilary Swank lets Troll Gerard Butler’s withered body drop to the floor. They are not the gentle tears of manly sorrow John would have shed over a family’s hug of reunited joy; they are violent sobs, shoulders shaking with them, and both are forced to watch the rest of the movie through a wet filter of saline. Pillow gone, John buries his face in Karkat’s bony shoulder and cries until the _World’s Best Grandma_ shirt is completely damp and gross.

They are both completely damp and gross. They raise the hems of their t-shirts and wipe their faces with them, awash with the growing horror of watching the saddest movie in **two** universes. Karkat roughly slings a wiry arm around John’s back and presses his temple to John’s temple and they blub both exhaustedly and shamelessly: “Oh, god, oh my god,” says John, and has to take off his glasses when Troll Gerard Butler sends another posthumous note of pity to his matesprit. This sets Karkat off again.

“Oh, no.” John is shaking. “This is - shit - oh god, it’s really beautiful - “

“It’s the most _fucking beautiful and unbelievable goddamn thing_ , John Egbert. The. _Most_. Fucking. _Beautiful_.”

Belatedly and through a mist of tears, John realises Karkat is now holding his hand. One clawed grey digit loops over that soft ridge between his own thumb and forefinger, the others twined like ivy inbetween his own. The pad of his thumb strokes little mindless circles at his palm, the base of each finger, trailing down the slightly ticklish side of his, uh, carpal bits. He realises it is a very expressive kind of hand-holding. Haha. Oh, wow.

“One more,” he says at the end, and Karkat’s too flushed and haggard to say no now. Oh, man. What he’s about to do is horrible. What he’s going to do is horrible but John feels like it’s the only time he’s ever going to be able to do it, and that now is the _right_ time to do it in. Karkat looks at him with red, slightly swollen cheeks, big dark oily shadows underneath his eyes from tiredness and crying, mouth set in that scowling way only achieved when someone’s trying not to weep again. They both have a certain expression he knows, just _knows_ , is mirrored in each other: a kind of transcendent, amazed misery. “Just one more, please. One more.”

“Okay.” Karkat is raspy now. “I can do this. I can _fucking_ do this, okay?”

  


* * *

The Land Before Time

* * *

 

 _“I can’t fucking do this. What are you making me fucking watch.”_

Karkat lies down on his back, head craned to the side, a narrow smudge of greys and blacks. John lies on his side next to him, head propped up on one elbow. They have cried nonstop since Littlefoot’s mother has died - _oh nooooo_ \- to the point of both dehydration and unbelievable tension headaches. Most of the pillows escape the bed, leaving crumbs, a dirty blanket, and them; squinting through puffy eyelids, completely undone. They are a little beyond speech, transfixed. “This is my fucking _life_ ,” Karkat says incoherently, and buries his face in John’s t-shirt.

This makes no sense whatsoever, like not even a little, but the point is that it’s really early and they haven’t had any sleep and they are also full of feelings. “I take it back,” the troll says hollowly, with eyes that stare right through him. “Human cinema is amazing. It is immensely fucking worthwhile. It is worthwhile as shit, and I take all goddamn grubsquirming credit for having created it. John, I made this.”

“I know, Karkat.”

“I made it for you and you will fucking thank me.”

“I thank you, Karkat. I thank you for Howie Mandel’s Little Monsters and everything wonderful in the universe.”

By the time Diana Ross croons the ending theme they just don't have the liquid left in them to cry. Man, they have pretty much met their quota of crying for the rest of their lifetimes. They have probably met the crying quota for everyone else too. Karkat is hiding his face in one of his hands, revealing only his grimace slashed with sharp white teeth; his t-shirt is pulled up in the wrong places and pulled down in the wrong places and he basically looks as though John has done the Windy Thing to him through, uh, some kind of monsoon, and he knows that he looks just as bad if not worse. It’s amazing. There are some things that, without fail, can only fill you with the happiest kind of - weird bizarre softness, like getting put in a tumbledryer, and seeing a close friend cry for the first time like a snotty little girl is one of them. Probably the main one.

There are still squashed butterfly pieces of popcorn hanging around, and he picks one up from its spot underneath his arm. John Egbert walks it up the skinny troll sternum of the other boy’s chest. Karkat watches with the strangest expression on his face. "Do you think," he says dreamily, "that it's possible anyone else is doing the exact same thing at this very moment?"

"Of course they're fucking not," says Karkat. "We ate it all."

It’s quiet. There is something about his friend's jaw and the way it curves into his neck, in all that messy hair and the blunt slash of his nose, those baleful yellow eyes and the hilarious red gritty tearstains. The air suddenly gets sucked out the room. In that moment, a single stunning blaze of a moment, his mouth feels weird and he just really wants to - and he thinks Karkat thinks he might - and he doesn't. Instead John rearranges his stiff elbow and lies flat on the bed, washed-out and empty as a blown egg, just happy and empty and clean.

Until Karkat says, "Let's watch Con Air again."

Oh hell yes.


End file.
